


In Darkness

by heartstrickledown



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-08
Updated: 2010-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:15:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstrickledown/pseuds/heartstrickledown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Post-Karnak. Dan/Walter/Laurie. Walter starts wearing Laurie's clothes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Darkness

  
  
  
  
  


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It's been a long time since he's done this, but transgressions seem so much smaller, now. There's the shame and the anger and the pressure in his throat - that will never go away - but it's also less important. He won't tell them - never will - but his silence is born more from apathy than sickness; it will be easier to not explain himself, to not wonder what their reactions will be. He can hear Laurel - _gee, who knew you were so kinky, Walter,_ all hard smiles and bright eyes. Daniel wouldn't say anything except maybe _oh,_ but he wouldn't look away.

No. It's better alone, something they cannot touch. With so much of him bare and torn raw for them, he thinks he's earned this sanctuary.

She doesn't have much to choose from, not really. They all smell like her, faintly, familiar and frightening. He touches a skirt. Brown, cotton and polyester, goes down mid-calf, subtle ruffles making it billow out just enough even when completely still. He's watched Daniel bunch the fabric up with a forearm, hungry eyes and hungry hands. Just once. She doesn't wear it often.

Walter pulls off the hanger and holds it up. Sensible. Modest. A good start. He slides it on over his pants, first, hitching it up to his bellybutton. It's a little loose, but it will stay on him. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror; the skirt shifts against his leg, subtle (dangerous).

He took a shower an hour ago. Laurel won't notice the smell of his body the next time she wears it - and if she does, it will be faint enough to make her suppose it's from her proximity to him, the aftermath of tentative shattering and scraping together. No, she won't suspect. Nobody does.

Slipping the skirt low enough so that he can unbutton and unzip his jeans (practical, androgynous, stained with old dust, safe), he carefully pushes them down. When he steps out of them, leaving them crumpled on the floor, he feels that old rush, ancient as he is and staggering. It's not something he can define, even as he sucks in a breath and brushes the cool fabric against his legs with shivering hands. It's heaviness and it's lightness, a rising away from himself.

Walter carefully strips his shirt. He'll need a new one, for now.

*

It's difficult to find time away from them - or at least any time substantial enough for…for this. They're all on such similar schedules, and often he has to wait for their grocery run (which Walter is never allowed on; he never stops informing them that they are wasting their money when there are perfectly good alternatives that are cheaper). Still, he goes on alone for six months, delicately piecing together outfits and doing menial tasks to stay busy. Often he'll write in his journal, tugging at his (no, Laurel's) clothing. Just feeling it. Existing in it.

If he can help it, he tries not to masturbate in the clothes. It feels like a great violation of Laurel's privacy, like he's doing something unthinkable to her. Disgust is part of it, too, and shame. He shouldn't feel the way he does. He knows that. Daniel will tell him that there's nothing wrong with (_"uh, those urges"_) how his body reacts. Laurel doesn't lie to him that way, just strokes his face and tells him he'll be all right. Sometimes she'll admonish him, tell him to grow up, picking fights when he doesn't behave the way they want him to behave. Most often she just rolls her eyes and waits.

None of it really matters. The clothes are all cool and soft to the touch, far away from his reach. They are warm when he returns them to their proper place.

Sometimes he worries she'll notice that insubstantial heat.

Mostly, he doesn't think about it. Reducing the acts to something remote makes them more bearable.

*

Laurel has a dress that quickly becomes his favorite - it's for winter wear and hides enough of his body to be comfortable. It's black with a high neck; there are slits down the side which run up to his thigh, but the hem falls around his ankles. It's sleeveless; there are long gloves to match and keep heat. He's never seen her wear it (and if he is not careful, considers it his). There's been no occasion for her to wear it - that's her explanation to Dan when they are doing a spring cleaning and he asks why she hasn't given it away.

"I like it," she explains, tugging at the neck, "but there's just not been a reason to wear it yet." She looks at Walter suddenly, just looks - and there is no expression there, no accusation, but he has to bite down on the bitter panic that works into his chest.

But she can't know. She looks away, shrugs at Daniel, smiles. Her hand trails down and then is gone.

*

They're out renting movies, which Walter is sure gives him at least half an hour. He strips himself away and disappears into the dress, stroking at the exposed line of his neck (pulse thrumming) with gloved fingertips. The smooth fabric brushes at his legs as he walks down the hallway to the living room; the carpet is soft against his bare feet. He wants to disappear into the sensation of dark silk and become something else, something new. He can't. That is one thing that he is learning to accept.

He's going to vacuum - they trust him with that, although he's ruined two vacuums by running them over the cord and a third by getting so frustrated at it that he carried it down to the ocean (walking the full 10 miles to get there and back, sufficiently panicking them) and threw it in. They act odd when he does things like vacuum, though he reasons it's only fair that he work in some way under their roof. Working, at least, keeps his focus away from the way the dress clings down his body. It makes the untouchable distance seem easier to bear.

He's not finished when they come home, laughing; the fact that he hears them before seeing them does him no good. The nearest window has been stuck shut ever since they moved in and the only door leads out to the living room - straight to them - and he's in the spare bedroom; there's no clothes in here; he can't, they can't, not -

Kicking the vacuum out of the room as a distraction, he slams the door shut and braces his body against it.

Immediately after that he realizes it would've been much wiser to let them discover him without fuss. (Laurel's yelling (worried) and Daniel's leaning against the door (worried) and the moment of panic is now a hot wash of shame and he's shivering.)

*

This is better than the alternative, he tells himself.

Daniel and Laurel are staring at him, the former utterly confused and the latter trying not to laugh. He's sitting naked on the guest bedroom bed, hands in his lap (dress tucked under the bed, hidden).

"So," Daniel says when the silence has stretched too long, "why did you feel the need to kick the vacuum, again?"

Walter shrugs. Laurie bursts out laughing.

"Okay," Dan says, looking lost. "Well, don't…do it again."

"Won't," he assures him.

*

It doesn't keep. He knew it wouldn't, but losing the tiny bit of secrecy still aches in a way he can't describe. He doesn't like keeping secrets as a rule, but having one that was his own to care for was special.

He's sitting on their bed in his dress (Laurel's, _Laurel's_), writing in his journal, piecing together a string of muggings that happened over the past two weeks. He doesn't hear them come in - he's lost in concentration, head spinning with the force of deductive thought. They're starting over. Not having to hide that most important part of him from them is valuable beyond words (they weren't angry when they found out, just frustrated - Dan stitching his arm was familiar in such a visceral way that it had been difficult not to cry).

"Hey, Wal -" Laurie says, opening the door to the bedroom. He freezes, staring at her. There's a moment where the sound of Dan humming in the kitchen breaks the silence. Then, "Oh."

Walter closes his journal and squares his shoulders; the dress feels too warm, suddenly, constricting. "Laurel," he says. "Welcome home."

She hesitates. "Do you want Dan to know?"

He shrugs. There's no point in excluding him (and Walter can feel his heart picking up pace, can feel the clammy sweat on his hands when he closes them into fists).

"Hey," Laurel calls back, "Dan, come in here."

"What, is something wrong?" he asks; Walter can hear a jar set down, hasty; his footsteps echo.

"Nope," Laurel says as he appears at her shoulder. "'Least I hope not."

Daniel blinks, takes off his glasses, and cleans them. When he puts them back on, Walter stands up, crossing his arms over his chest. "Holy shit," Dan says. Walter tightens himself, back of his neck prickling; it's a strict matter of will to keep a level gaze.

"I know, right?" Laurel glances at Daniel, then back to Walter, hands on hips. When Dan just blinks and stares, Laurel moves forward. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'd like to investigate this development." When she smiles at him, Walter feels something inside unravel (and there is too much trust to stay afraid).


End file.
